A Ghost That Walks
by halfmyheart
Summary: Magnus had never killed anyone before, and he was completely unprepared for the emotional fallout. Oneshot.


**Title:** A Ghost that Walks  
**Author:** halfmyheart  
**Rating:** Teen  
**Character: **Magnus Martinsson  
**Pairings:** None. Maybe Magnus/Linda if you squint really hard at the end.  
**Genre:** Angst  
**Word Count:** 6,469  
**Fandom:** Wallander BBC  
**Warnings:** Downpours of angst, mentions of death, a masochistic moment, and some retching.  
**Summary:** Magnus had never killed anyone before, and he was completely unprepared for the emotional fallout that followed.  
**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters and places are the property of Left Bank Pictures, Yellow Bird, 2 Entertain, and the BBC. This form of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks was intended. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.  
**Feedback:** Constructive criticism is always welcomed. Please read and review.  
**Author's Notes:** _One Step Behind_ tag. This story takes place several weeks after the events of _One Step Behind_ from season one. I hated the way the writers did nothing to show the consequences of the shooting and the effect it would have had on Magnus. The next episode plowed right ahead as if nothing had ever happened and it was never mentioned again. Something as heavy as taking another human life would have been a hard thing for anyone to swallow, Magnus included, and it would have irreparably changed him in some way. If nothing else, he would have had a hard time accepting the fact that he had taken the life of another human being.  
**Status:** Complete.

* * *

_The front door was ajar; left open in a mad rush of fear and apprehension. _

_He sidled through the opening, his gun drawn, every nerve in his body vibrating with anticipation. Slowly and soundlessly, he crept toward the living room where the sound of Linda's soft, terrified sobs reached his ears. Cold dread wound its way down his spine and wrapped itself around his heart in a vice-like grip of steely ice. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and tiptoed across the entryway._

_He stopped just inches from the dark, yawning entrance to the living room, his heart pounding painfully in his chest as if trying to escape. He listened intently to the conversation between the two men, ready to pounce if things went awry. His hands were steady on his gun, poised and ready at his side. He strained his ears, listening for the slightest shift in the tone of the conversation. He knew that if things went south he would only have seconds to make a decision that would follow him for the rest of his life like a shadow he could not shake. He stood there for several seconds, wavering, wondering what he should do when the decision was made for him._

_A loud gasp rent the still air around him, a cry of fear torn from Linda's chest, and Wallander started shouting. Magnus made his move without even thinking about it. He turned, bursting through the empty doorway, his gun flying upward as he yelled for Kurt to get down. His finger squeezed the trigger of its own accord. Once. Twice._

_He watched in mute horror as Ake's body fell lifelessly to the floor in a heap, two angry red bullet holes marring the smooth skin of his forehead, a river of red carving twin paths down the side of this head. His eyes locked on the empty stare of the other man and he felt his heart drop as the truth of what he had just done settled heavily into his buzzing brain._

_He had killed a man. _

_Not wounded him. Killed him. _

_Murdered him._

_His tore his eyes away from Ake, momentarily meeting Wallander's grateful gaze. He was vaguely conscious of a shuddering Linda, crumpled on the floor in her father's arms, her tear stained face a mask of incomprehension and inconsolable terror, before he was stumbling backwards toward the front door, desperate to escape the house as the walls closed in on him. Linda's frightened wails followed him as he tripped down the low steps to the level pavement of the driveway. His feet carried him away from the door until he collapsed on the ground halfway down the short drive._

_Gasping for breath, he lurched forward and emptied the contents of his stomach into the bushes. He choked and gasped for air, his throat seizing up and threatening to close as he tried to swallow around the hard, excruciatingly painful knot that had formed there. He coughed and gagged, wiping at his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket hard enough to draw blood. The acrid taste of blood on his tongue sent him into another fit of convulsions, and when he finally surface, it was to the sound of wailing sirens in the distance. He swore under his breath, cursing whatever bitter twist of fate had led him here._

_Crouching over the bushes, his vision blurred by reflexive tears, he stared at the gun in his hands, holding it away from his body like it was a foreign object that he was uncertain of. In slow motion, he saw it all again in his mind's eye. _

_Over and over and over._

_Bang. Bang._

_Thud._

Magnus awoke with a start, the scream dying in his throat, his entire body shaking violently as the last vestiges of the dream played out in slow motion in his mind. His breath caught in his throat, nearly suffocating him as he gasped and choked on the cold, stale air of his apartment. He automatically looked down at his hands, twisted in the bed sheets, half expecting them to be covered with blood.

The pale white skin of his hands seemed to glow in the darkness and a sense of relief washed over him as he realized that it had been a dream and nothing more, but his mind was reeling, stuck on instant replay as the sound of gunshots and the sickening thud of Ake's body hitting the floor resonated hollowly in his mind.

Staring at the shadows crawling across the ceiling, he concentrated on breathing evenly. In and out, in and out, until his heartbeat had slowed to its normal rhythm. He had been having the same dream every night for weeks, and he felt trapped in the clutches of the nightmare as if death itself was reaching for him from beyond the grave. The dreams started out innocently enough, always something innocuous and light, but it always ended with blood and death and a moment he could never take back no matter how badly he might want to. He tried to erase the memory from his mind, but it was stuck, seared into his consciousness like a brand of dishonor and guilt.

He sat upright and kicked the blanket off. His skin felt hot, almost feverish to the touch, and his throat was dry and sore. He tore off his sweat soaked t-shirt and tossed it across the room with a savage growl that sounded frightening to his own ears. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he sat there, panting, and trying to shake the encroaching feeling of doom from his shoulders. He rubbed at his face with his hands, shocked to find it rough with stubble. He could not remember the last time he had shaved. Had it been yesterday or the day before? He shook his head. He thought today was Monday but he could not be sure. The days and weeks had blurred together into one long current of time passing him by while he tried vainly to keep up. Each day was to be survived, not enjoyed, and each restless night was to be endured.

The alarm clock on his bedside table glared up at him, the bright green display declaring that it was two fifteen in the morning. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and grabbed the water bottle from beside the clock. It was tepid but he guzzled it down in one long pull. Setting the empty bottle back down on the low table, he reclined against the headboard of the bed, drawing one long leg up underneath him and stretching the other one out in front of him.

He tried to tell himself that he was being ridiculous, that his behavior was unbecoming a man of his age, but that niggling feeling of guilt nudged all of his good reason aside. His emotions warred back and forth in a ceaseless cycle of doubt and guilt and fear until he could no long distinguish what exactly he was feeling at any one given moment. A thousand different emotions swirled inside his head making him feel confused and alone, bitter and afraid, guilty and justified, angry and sad all at the same time.

He banged his head lightly against the headboard and tried to force himself to think of something else, anything else, but at that moment, a bright light, more than likely from a pair of headlights on the street outside, hit the window across the room, briefly turning the curtains blood red with muted light. Magnus's mind instantly flashed to an image of bloody bullet holes and smooth snowy white skin stained crimson in the darkness. He felt a cold, hard knot of ice turn in his stomach and he shot off the bed, gasping for breath that would not come except in sharp, painful bursts. He gritted his teeth and somehow managed to bit the inside of his cheek. The tangy taste of blood flooded his mouth and made him sick to his stomach.

His chest felt too tight, too heavy, and his body felt impossibly hot and terribly cold at the same time as he stumbled through the darkness, hands outstretched like a blind man, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get to the bathroom where he fell painfully to his knees in front of the toilet. His hands clawed frantically at his throat as his entire body convulsed with the force of his heaving but nothing came up apart from hot water. There was nothing left inside of him to be purged except for fear and self-hatred, neither of which would ever be expelled as easily as his dinner.

It was the second time that night that he had awoken from the throes of the nightmare, the second time he had stumbled into the bathroom to spill the contents of his stomach over the toilet, the second time he sat heaving on the rug with his heart pounding in his throat. It had become a unwelcome nightly ritual, a habit that tore at his sanity a little more each night, fraying it around the edges and pulling on the loose strings, unraveling it slowly but deliberately each time he woke and dashed desperately for the bathroom.

With trembling hands, Magnus eventually marshaled enough strength to push himself away from the toilet, his throat burning and raw, and his chest heaving with effort. He rubbed his tongue inquisitively over the sore spot on his cheek and was thankful that it had stopped bleeding.

Unable to stand unaided, he used the shower curtain to pull himself to his feet. His entire body was covered in goose bumps as he walked shakily back into the bedroom and collapsed dejectedly onto the rug beside his bed. He drew his knees up to his chest and locked his arms inflexibly around them. He knew that sleep would elude him for the rest of the night so he did not even entertain the idea of crawling back under the soft blankets and cocooning himself there until dawn. If by some chance he did manage to fall into an uneasy sleep, the dreams would come again and torment him until the morning broke. That much he knew from experience.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his knees, tucking his chin into his chest like a child. The soft fabric of his pajama pants was cool against his burning face and he felt the hot pressure of angry, guilt ridden tears sting his eyes. He tried to hold them back but the dam of emotions broke and he was soon crying like a little lost child right there on the bedroom floor. His entire body shook with the force of his sobbing and his head began to ache, but he could not quell the flow of tears now that they had started to fall. Everything around him seemed to wash away in a flood of salty tears and he covered his face with his hands, certain that he would lose himself completely to the nerve-wracking whim of guilt this time. His mind teetered precariously between sanity and the yawning abyss of the darkness and he forced himself back from the edge with great effort.

He was not sure why he was crying, or who he was crying for. Surely he was not crying for Ake. Was he crying for himself? For lost innocence? For that fragile piece of his soul that he had destroyed that night?

Although it often felt like an eternity, in reality it had only been a few short weeks since he had been forced to take one life to save another, and, even though he had been trained to use his weapon, he had been unprepared for the toll it would take on him. Emotionally and physically, he was drained. He knew the difference between shooting to injure and shooting to kill was infinitesimal when innocent lives were hanging in the balance, but that knowledge did not stop the nightmares or the way his hands shook uncontrollably whenever he was forced to work outside the station.

The fateful moments leading up to the instant that he had shot Ake were a clear as a bell, but the aftermath of the shooting at Wallander's house was a blur to him. He remembered Kurt patting him on the back and Linda hugging him for all that he was worth. He remembered Holgersson talking to him but he could not remember a word of what she had said. He remembered Anne-Britt, her eyes soft and kind, smiling at him and telling him he had done the right thing. He remembered Nyberg giving him a sad smile and a pat on the arm. He remembered the news crew trying to get his attention, wanting an interview with someone who had been inside the house. He remembered a dog howling in the distance, the lost, lonely sound tearing through him and leaving him feeling cold and alone. He remembered heaving into the bushes.

The only thing that stood out clearly in his mind was the sight of the paramedics wheeling the black body bag out of the house and loading it into the back of the ambulance. Magnus had watched it crawl out of sight down the residential street until it turned a corner and was lost from view. The fear and adrenaline that had pulsed through him when he had first entered the house dissipated then and he nearly collapsed onto the pavement at Nyberg's feet. Somehow he had managed to make it back to his car before collapsing into the driver's seat, lightheaded and shaking.

Mercifully, the tears did not come until after he was alone in his apartment that night. His mother had called, frantic from having seen the reports on the news, but as the broadcast did not name names, only showed a picture of the responding officers standing outside of the house, he had lied and told her that everything was fine. She did not know that he was the detective who had pulled the trigger and he intended to keep it that way. She would only worry and he was not sure he could stand it. His mother always knew how to make things worse by smothering him when things went wrong.

He threw himself into his work after he was cleared by the shooting review board for the on duty death of Ake because whenever he stopped working, or moving, or thinking about the menial tasks of day to day life at the station, he found himself reliving that fateful moment when he had forced his finger to squeeze the trigger and end another man's life. In the quiet moments when he could no longer lie to himself, it did not matter than Ake had been a cold blooded killer. In the end, Magnus wondered what the difference was between himself and Ake: they were both murderers. The difference was in the decimal.

It was in those quite moments that the memory of his hands gripping the weapon, so heavy in his hands, and of his finger squeezing the trigger, was overwhelming. He would start to sweat profusely and his heartbeat would accelerate at an alarming pace. Before he knew it, his hands were trembling violently and the rest of his body was not far behind. If he was at the station, he would usually make a mad dash for the restroom, quickly excusing himself from any entanglements, and leaving a string of apologies in his wake as he knocked into other officers on his way to the toilet. If any of his coworkers had noticed anything amiss they had not made comments about it. He thought for sure that his boss would have pulled him aside if she suspected him compromised by his actions and removed him from fieldwork until she deemed him capable of handling himself again. So far that had not happened and he was content that the charade he put on while in their company was obviously working.

Magus's tears finally abated, leaving him sniffling and coughing and snotting all over himself. His left eye was twitching and he put the heel of his palm against it to stop it. He was glad that no one was there to see him like that as he exhaled sharply and ran his hands through his disheveled hair. As he drew them back, he started at them, holding them out as if they belonged to someone else. His hands were nothing special: they were large and smooth and strong.

And they had killed a man.

He clenched them into tight, angry fists, his fingernails biting tiny red crescents of pain into the sensitive flesh of his palms. He did not care. He clenched them tighter, relishing the sudden pain. It reminded him that, while he felt dead inside, he was very much alive. It was masochistic and not in keeping with his nature, but the pain brought him back to the here and now for as long as it lasted.

Magnus knew that he had saved lives that night, he _knew_ it, but all he could think about was the one that he had taken. It hovered in the back of his mind like a storm cloud on the horizon, saturating it with uncertainty and doubt that tore at the sinews of his resolve. Try as he might he could not extricate himself from the guilt by thinking of the lives he had saved because Ake was someone's son, someone's brother, someone's friend. He was a ghost that walked through Magnus's dreams and tormented his every waking moment. More than anything, he was _a cold blooded killer_, and that small piece of knowledge was the only thing that kept Magnus from going completely off the deep end.

He found himself clinging to that small shred of knowledge as tightly as a child held onto a beloved stuffed toy. He had not killed an innocent man, he had killed a murder. The difference, he knew, was in the man's actions, but that did not help him to sleep at night. If anything, it kept him awake, agonizing over the split second decision that he had made before he pointed his weapon and pulled the trigger. He had the choice to shot Ake in the chest where he might have lived, but he had shot him twice in the head, sealing his fate.

_Do not pull that trigger unless you mean it because you cannot take it back._

He remembered his teachers at the academy schooling that maxim into his head from day one until the day he graduated at the top of his class. It had become a litany he could recite in his sleep, a creed to live by. A creed to die by perhaps?

Had he meant to kill Ake? Yes. Did he wish he could take it back? No, not if it meant sacrificing Linda. Did he wish it could have ended differently than it did? Yes, of course. Could he change it now? No. Not even if he wanted to. Ake was dead by his hand and nothing would ever change that.

Magnus climbed unsteadily to his feet and padded back to the bathroom in search of a tissue to mop up the mess he had made of his face. He reached absently for the light switch on the wall more out of habit than out of necessity. He stood in front of the sink, squinting at his hands in the bright light, but he refused to look at himself in the mirror. Ever since he had killed Ake, he had had a difficult time facing his reflection. The man in the mirror was not someone he recognized anymore and he could not stand the sight of his sad, haunted eyes.

He could very well imagine the state of his appearance: disheveled and wrinkled from tossing and turning all night, pale from his constant heaving episodes, gaunt from lack of eating, draw and tired from lack of sleep. He was sure he looked akin to a thrown away doll, and the notion tugged at his heartstrings, he had always prided himself on his appearance, but there was little he could bring himself to do about it now.

Reaching for the faucet and turning it on, he cupped his hands under the steady stream of cold water and splashed it on his face, scrubbing it hard with his hands to wash away the salty tracks of his tears. He swished the water around in his mouth to wash away the taste of salt and death and he almost felt human again. Almost.

For a moment, he stood there, the cold water leeching some of the heat from his burning face, his hands braced against the smooth, cool porcelain of the sink, his elbows locked, and his head hanging down between his shoulder blades. He watched the water slowly swirl down the drain, seeping away like the blood from the bullet holes in Ake's forehead.

At the thought, his stomach soured again and he found himself on his hands and knees in front of the sink, heaving and choking on empty air. It was more painful than actual retching and it brought more tears to his eyes. He tried to control his breathing, to reign in his emotions and regain some semblance of self-control, but it was hopeless. Whatever control he had once possessed over his emotions had died when he had squeezed that trigger and killed a man.

He remained on the floor, his hands twisted angrily in the rug, until he was breathing steadily again. When he was fairly certain that the worst was over, he climbed back to his feet and, without glancing at the mirror, he clicked off the light and returned to the bedroom. Although his eyelids felt heavy, almost leaden, he did not crawl back into be. He knew that the dreams awaited him in the realm of sleep and opted to spare himself any more undue anguish that night. Instead, he shuffled over to the window and drew back the heavy curtains. He squinted into the bright early morning light and waited for his eyes to adjust before stepping up to the glass and raking his weary gaze across the sleeping city.

The white nights of Sweden had always been one of his favorite aspects of summer. It was a refreshing and welcome change from the five months of near total darkness that encapsulated the winter season. He loved to wake up in the wee hours of the morning and be able to go for a run in broad daylight. It always gave him a jolt of excitement to look out his window and see the world covered in sunlight and alive with the comings and goings of the townspeople. He could not imagine living anywhere else in the world and be as happy as he was in Ystad.

Today, however, and for the last several weeks, he felt nothing when he looked out the window. He felt numb all over like someone had doused him in cold water and all the warmth had left his body, never to return. He felt weary and shaky all the way down to his bones. The sun was shining and the birds were chirping, but Magnus felt nothing but a strange emptiness that gnawed at his mind and slowly ensconced his heart in a thin, cold blanket of indifference.

This was the perfect time for him to get out of his apartment, to go for a run and clear his mind before he had to go in to the station, but he could not force himself to do it. All he wanted to do was draw the curtains closed and forget that there was a world on the other side of them, waiting for him to emerge and carry on with his life the way he knew he should.

He leaned heavily against the window frame, pressed his forehead to the cool glass, and watched the world slowly come to life outside. He saw his neighbors going about their daily business as if the world had not changed, and he felt a pang of shame that was there and gone just as quickly.

He watched old man Lidström hobble down the sidewalk with his mean little ankle biting dog, Ulf, whom Magnus hated with a passion, trotting along beside him, and wondered if he would still feel as numb and sick to his stomach at the thought of taking another man's life as he did right now when he was the old man's age. The thought was enough to nearly send him fleeing back to the bathroom. He swallowed hard and forced himself to look elsewhere. A line of noisy, squawking seagulls flew past his window and he watched them until they had turned right and faded into the distance.

Magnus did not know how long he stood there, turning that day over and over in his mind, but the sound of his mobile phone shook him out of his stupor. He glanced at it on the nightstand but made no effort to retrieve it. He had enough of answering the phone at the office and he decided that if it was important they would leave a message. He stared at it until the light went out and it finally stopped ringing, but just as soon as silence settled back into the room, the cheerful little song started again and Magnus banged his head against the window in frustration.

It was work calling. No one else would call twice in a row like that. Not even his mother.

He padded across the room and snatched the phone off the table in a flourish of irritation.

"Martinsson."

"Magnus, its Holgersson. I need you to come in to the station early. We have got a new case and I have some work that requires your expertise."

Magnus thought about protesting but decided that work was just what he needed. It would occupy his mind and give him a respite from his mental torment. At work, he could retreat from the world and immerse himself in something productive. When he was helping others, he felt a tiny bit of the guilt flake away, and the weight on his shoulders shrank infinitesimally, making it easier for him to get through the day.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," he said into the receiver.

He stood and crossed to the closet, shaking his head to clear it as he went. He hoped that whatever job Holgersson needed him to do would require all of his concentration and would keep him busy for several hours.

He attempted to make himself look half way decent despite his own misgivings. He took a cold shower and shaved without the aid of the mirror, running his hands over his face to make sure he had not missed any stubble. Without thought, he pulled on a striped, blue button down shirt and a pair of jeans that fit just a tad too snuggly before the shooting but that now hung off his hips. He retrieved a belt from the closet and pretended that he had not noticed the sudden disparity in his weight. After jerking a comb violently through his hair and splashing on far too much aftershave, he grabbed his phone and his jacket and started toward the door.

As he locked the door behind him, he silently hoped that he looked presentable enough for work. He had avoided the mirror in the bathroom while he brushed his teeth so he was not sure if he looked like hell, or death warmed over, or a lovely combination of both. He knew his eyes were probably red and his face was probably slightly puffy from his sobbing episode, but he hoped no one would notice if he wore his sunglasses and retreated to a back corner of the office to do his work.

His stomach grumbled loudly in protest as he slipped his keys into his pocket and he remembered that he had forgotten to eat breakfast.

_Probably for the best, _he thought while he descended the stairs two at a time.

It was not the first meal Magnus had missed in the last few weeks and it was not likely to be the last. Death on his conscience made it nearly impossible to eat. Nothing tasted the way it was supposed to and he was not sure that he could have enjoyed it even if it did. Everything tasted the same and everything tasted like death.

He briefly wondered how long this feeling would last and if he would ever feel like himself again. He wondered if he should get a cat to keep him company and listen to him talk since he found it next to impossible to talk to anyone else about what had happened. Cats were supposed to be therapeutic and relatively low maintenance. His mother's calico had just had a litter of kittens. Maybe she would give him one once they were old enough to be taken from the mother. He could call her on his lunch break and find out. He was more of a dog person but his apartment complex forbade large dogs.

Decision made, Magnus felt his facial muscles contort into a smile and he briefly worried that he was a terrifying sight. He was probably smiling like a madman, a pale and disheveled mad man, the kind of man mothers steered their small children away from when they met on the sidewalk. He passed an elderly couple who smiled and nodded at him and Magnus felt himself relax. He might have felt crazy on the inside but, judging by the reactions of others, at least he did not look it on the outside. It was a small comfort but he took solace where he could find it.

He tried to tell himself that everything would be alright, but his hands were still trembling and he shoved them deep into his jacket pockets to make it less noticeable. His hand brushed against the holster on his hip and he felt his stomach turn threateningly.

He gently removed his hand from his pocket, sliding it slowly passed the holstered weapon as if afraid it was a snake that would bite him if he made a sudden movement. It was foolish and Magnus blushed at the thought, but he crossed his arms across his chest, locking his fingers around his biceps, and pretended that the holster at his side was empty.

When he got to the station, he threw his jacket across the back of his chair and, smiling nonchalantly to Anne-Britt, retreated to the restroom.

Reaching for the door, he bumped into Nyberg.

"Good morning, Magnus," he said cheerfully.

"Morning," grunted Magnus, ducking his head to avoid eye contact with the older man.

"You look a bit peaky," he said, the worry in his voice sticking like a thorn into Magnus's heart.

"I think I'm catching a cold," Magnus mumbled. The lie slipped off his tongue like silver, tasting every bit like the sin it was. He stepped around Nyberg and hurried into the restroom before the other man could think of a reply.

He locked himself in the last stall and removed the gun from the holster on his hip with bated breath. In one swift movement, he removed the clip and emptied the bullets into the palm of his hand. He looked at them, unsure of what to do with them, but unable to put them back into the clip. He closed his hand tightly around them until they bite into soft flesh, hating the feel of the cool metal against his palm, and wondering what it would feel like to be shot with one of them. He shuddered violently at the thought and opened his hand, nearly spilling them onto the  
floor.

Finally, when he could stare at them no longer, he put them into his pocket with shaking hands and slid the empty clip back into the gun. It was a foolish and dangerous thing to do, but he would rather die himself than ever kill another human being. If that meant carrying an unloaded gun around to keep up his charade then so be it. Someday he might change his mind and reload it, but today was not that day.

As he exited the restroom, he nearly walked into Wallander. The other man gave him a sultry look and Magnus felt his heart leap into his throat, the sure sign of a guilty conscience. Did Kurt know what he had just done? Would he call him out on it? Would Lisa find out and suspend him until he got a grip on himself? Maybe she would confine him to a desk for several months. Maybe that was what he needed. Or maybe he needed to be pushed back into the field to conquer his fears head on.

Magnus shook his head to clear it and slid by the older detective, offering him a thin, closed mouth smile in acknowledgement and apology.

_Don't be foolish, _he chided himself. _For everything that he is, the man is not a clairvoyant. There is no way he could know. He's just being Wallander._

Sliding into his desk chair, Magnus steeped his fingers together and pressed them to his lips as if in prayer. He took several deep, calming, life affirming breaths before he noticed the yellow sticky note sitting on top of his laptop and breathed a sigh of relief. Holgersson had him working on the crime database today. Slogging through thousands upon thousands of tedious files to find one single piece to a puzzle was just the sort of distraction he needed to keep his mind occupied.

He smiled slightly to himself, his first real smile in weeks, and the knot in his stomach began to slowly unclench itself. For one more day at least, Magnus would be confined to the safety of the station. His soul, as bruised and tattered as it was, was given a reprieve and a chance to begin the long, arduous process of healing.

He reached for his laptop just as a familiar voice reached his ears.

"Hi, Dad."

"Linda? What are you doing here?" Asked Wallander from somewhere behind him.

Magnus nearly jumped out of his skin but recovered quickly by feigning a coughing fit.

"I need to talk to you," he heard Linda say. He could feel her eyes upon him but he refused to look up, busying himself with booting up his computer instead. He intently rearranged his pencils and moved his notebook from one side of his desk to the other and back again.

"Is everything alright, honey?"

"Yeah, everything's fine."

"Well, okay, let's go into my office."

"Sure, Dad" said Linda, walking right by Magnus, her arm brushing against the back of his chair. The scent of her lavender perfume tickled his nose and nearly made him sneeze.

Magnus allowed himself to glance up, expecting to see her retreating back, but she was looking over her shoulder, watching at him. Their eyes locked and Magnus felt his heart skip a beat. He had not spoken to Linda since that fateful night, and even then it had been superficial conversation brought on by necessity to keep the moment from getting too awkward. He felt his chest tighten and for one awful second he was afraid she would turn around and walk over to where he sat, rooted to his desk chair, and ask him how he was holding up.

But she didn't. She just smiled. There was no pity or sympathy in the gesture. It was offered freely with no strings attached that he might get tangled up in and trip over back into the endless cycle of guilt. It was bright and cheerful and it warmed him from his cold fingers down to the very core of his being.

He felt his lips tip upward, drawn into a smile without his permission, and he drank in her appearance as she turned and disappeared into her father's office, leaving him smiling at the door.

In that moment, he realized something very important, something that he had forgotten in his selfish wallowing those last few weeks: Linda suffered from the same fear and nightmarish memories that he did. She was plagued by the same ghost. Ake had held a gun to her head and tried to kill her for no reason other than to spite her father.

It was a terrible thought, but Magnus knew she was holding up far better than he was. After all, she had been saved and given a second chance. _He_ had saved her.

Maybe she would save him.

* * *

Don't forget to review. Please and thank you. :)


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